The Dance of Fatherhood
by annaisadinosaur
Summary: "James chats idly with Harry as he drifts about the kitchen. It's rather like dancing, he thinks, being a father. He's not quite so good at it—Merlin, he's burnt himself twice with this bottle—but he moves like he might be. And he likes it. He reckons that's important, too." / In which James gets to babysit Harry for an entire thirty minutes.


James Potter could have been a dancer. He says so sometimes, but Lily only ever laughs. She likes to say that he moves like he's got a peg leg, and that he was made to ride a broomstick. "Dancing isn't all about moving your legs!" he'll say, to which she reminds him his arms resemble uncooked noodles.

He's thinking this while he balances a baby, a broken Muggle thing and a scorching hot bottle all in one arm. Needless to say, the bottle rockets across the floor, and he only just hardly catches Harry before he's riding along with gravity.

"Star chaser, your father was!" he tells him with a laugh, and discards the telephone he just broke on the counter. "Oh, come on, Harry, what are you crying for? Just a bit of adrenaline is all. Never killed anyone." He retrieves the bottle and runs it under the faucet. "Well, that's probably a lie. But you won't remember it because you're one and you still poop in your pants."

James chats idly with Harry as he drifts about the kitchen. It's rather like dancing, he thinks, being a father. He's not quite so good at it—Merlin, he's burnt himself twice with this bottle—but he moves like he might be. And he likes it. He reckons that's important, too.

"There you are," says James when he's finally got the temperature just right. Harry's staring up at his father with the bottle in his mouth with wide, watery eyes like his face is a television. His face has faded from bright, screaming red to a fair beige, sort of like his mother's complexion. James sways with him in his arms, like Lily does sometimes, and he's suddenly very grateful Sirius is nowhere in sight. (He doesn't look _motherly_ now, does he?) But the new quiet is Beethoven to James's ears, and he smiles. "What'd I tell you, Harry? All a man ever needs is good food and a bit of _mano y mano_. What's that mean, you ask? Well, it's something your godfather likes to say, so I reckon it's got something to do with being manly, as that's all he ever talks about. Dunno, though. Good question. I'll ask next time he comes round."

Harry finishes the contents of the bottle within the next few minutes, and James flinches when the screaming commences. He sings for a length of five whole seconds, gives him a go with the whole crawling thing that he doesn't like to do much, blows some smoke rings with his wand. None of it works till they're both sitting on the couch and Harry grabs for the wand instead.

"I don't think this is a good idea," says James, but he lets Harry put it in his mouth anyway. That's apparently what Harry likes to do lately, chew on important things. (Like his mum's signed copy of _Marauding with Monsters_ by that Lockhart geezer.) He puts his three teeth to good use on the end of James's wand. _Oh_, will there be teeth marks. "This is probably a really bad idea." But he's not crying anymore, and this is definitely something important to consider. He watches for a moment, and decides that since the house has not blown up yet and Harry hasn't stabbed himself in the face, there is probably not a lot that can go wrong. Proud of his rather ingenuitive parenting, James leans back with a smug grin on his face.

"Your mum's gonna think I'm a miracle man when she gets home, eh? Don't worry about your mum, now, Haz. She won't be mad at you forever. She's just sour now because she waited thirteen hours in line last month to get that book signed. Bollocks, yeah? That's what _I_ thought." He pauses. "No. Right. Don't tell your mum I said that." He takes a moment to adjust the angle of his wand in Harry's mouth; so long as he doesn't get his mouth towards the other end, he's sure nothing dangerous will happen. "Your mum, though? Absolutely brill. You can tell her I said so. She puts up with both of us, doesn't she? And she even sort of fancies our company. I'll tell you what, _that's _brill, if nothing else.

"But, if you are ever to be a Potter, there is one thing you must know: your mum wears the pants in the family. That's not to say I wear the skirt. No, no. I mean, your mum's got some lovely skirts, but my legs—well, let's just say, there is a fine line between funny and downright _terrifying_, and your father falls heavily in the latter.

"What I mean to say is this—Mum's boss. Sorry, kiddo. We're her boys. You were sort of born into that system. You've got no choice. You're like a little slave, sorta. But a happy one. Look at you! Grinning about like that. But we'll stick together. Not that you care, eh? You adore Mum. That's why you were crying so much when she scolded you. I know. I get it. We love Mum. But you and I, Harry! We've got something she hasn't." He stops for a beat, pondering on his word choice. "Well, we'll get into that later. Maybe years later. Now is not an ideal time for an overview of the female anatomy. No, son, we've got the _mano y mano_ bond. Man to man. We understand each other. We're like one soul in two bodies. Christ, if you get my looks, I apologize," he says, before tripping over himself again, "I mean, because you'll have birds trailing your every move. Only I hope your generation has some sort of muggle technology to tame the hair. Can't tell now what it looks like, can I? Sort of a mop." He flicks a bit of Harry's hair in the front.

"But I get what it's like to have your mum mad at me. Don't like it much myself, either. You know she called me an arrogant toerag once? In _front_ of people! The most awful experience of my life. But you're lucky. She loves you, always will. Can you believe I used to wonder if she ever would just tolerate my presence? She's a tough one, that woman. _An arrogant toerag_! Of all the descriptors!"

His tone has gotten high, and for some reason, Harry starts giggling. His mouth is shiny where he's drooled all over everything, and the end of his dad's wand is sticking in the side of his mouth, and he doesn't understand a word James has said all day, yet James loves him more in that split moment of time than he ever realized. They're both laughing when the front door opens, and James is so light-headed he almost forgets to acknowledge Lily's return home.

She comes in anyway, arms full of grocery bags, and makes a beeline for the kitchen. Harry's laughter stops and his eyes follow his mum as she goes to and fro.

"How was your grocery trip?" calls James, sending Harry a wink that he evidently does not understand.

"Oh, fine, it was just a trip to the shop," she sighs, and James can see her dump everything on the counter, beside the broken telephone. She eyes it, then turns to her husband, remnants in hand. "What is this?"

"Erm, that muggle speaky thing?" He knows the name of it, of course, but he likes to think he sounds cute if he pretends he doesn't. Lily does not seem to be of the same opinion.

"What'd you do to it? How'd you even manage this? It's cracked down the middle!"

"Harry's bottle, it was... er... hard to heat up? The wand sort of slipped and it was in the way, and..."

"_What is that in Harry's mouth?_"

"What?" Then he looks, and remembers. "Oh, my wand. It's fine."

She bolts over and rips the wand away from Harry. "It's fine? _It's fine?_ You gave my baby a weapon to play with and you tell me _it's fine_? It is bloody well not fine, James Potter!"

"But," splutters James, "it was the handle..."

"He is _one_! And you are _twenty_-one! And you've both somehow got the same amount of sense!" She scoops Harry up into her arms and screams at James a little more. He tries explaining, but mostly just pouts (perhaps he does have the maturity of a one-year-old). After five fluent minutes of yelling herself blue in the face, she spins around on her heel, and Harry's face is visible over her shoulder as she departs.

He is grinning at his father, and it is the cheekiest grin he has ever seen.

James leaps off the sofa. "Harry!" he calls. "You _traitor!_ Traitor to the fatherland! I thought we were in this together!"

"Next time I need someone to babysit, I'll just call _Sirius_!" Lily yells back instead.

With a frown, James sinks back into the sofa. He's really going to have to ask Sirius what this whole _mano y mano_ thing is about. And probably take some dance lessons, while he's at it, because it seems he can't tango to save his life.

In the meantime, Harry Potter is so grounded.

* * *

**A/N: I have fun with James Potter. And baby Harry. Thanks for reading, lovelies! **


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